by Karleen Koen
"Implying I do not? No, Barbara, I will not follow your reasoning. Harry acted without thinking. If he had thought, he would have realized that you would never be unfaithful to me."
Her face was mutinous.
"You are not the only one touched by this, Barbara. It is my name being dragged alongside yours. My honor—as well as yours—being questioned." His handsome face was grave.
She was instantly ashamed of herself.
"Roger, I did not think. You are good not to be furious with us both. I will speak to Harry. I promise. Thank you for not sending him away."
"Make no mistake, Barbara. I am still angry with him, but at my age, I know what time will do. This will pass; if we behave as always, some fresh sensation will take its place for lack of anything else. Within a month, we will be gone, and all of this will be behind us. Try to think of that, rather than this filth. Promise me you will try."
It had been written down, distributed across the city. The written word was so powerful; it lingered in people's minds as truth. This rumor might follow her like mud clinging to her skirts for years, no matter its lies. He asked much of her. She said, "I will."
She went to see Harry. He was sulky, rebellious, drinking. She was shocked at the sight of him, so much worse than Roger. His face was cut and bruised; one eye was closing and turning black and blue; his knuckles were bandaged, and he could not move without pain. He refused to discuss any of it with her except to tell her through clenched teeth that Roger and Philippe would receive an apology from him.
"And what about me?" she said softly. "Do I not deserve one?"
"What for?"
"For thinking that I would be unfaithful—"
"I never thought that, Bab."
"Then why would you attack Philippe?"
He was silent. A muscle worked in his cheek.
She left him. Poor Harry, thoughtless as always. Only this time, he had shamed her by his conduct.
* * *
In her bedchamber, she thought about it as she took off her hat and gloves. It was a shameful, dreadful thing that verse implied, sullying her honor. She understood Harry's anger. She could not get the verse out of her mind. Devane, Soissons, Devane…
A knock sounded. Caesar White peeped in. She welcomed him, even though all she wished was to be alone for a while to sort everything out.
"Lady Devane," he said, talking and bowing and coming into the room all at the same time, "I came to say good-bye."
"Good-bye? But where are you going?"
"I am leaving."
"Leaving," she cried, staring at him, "But what do you mean? Not leaving the household—but why? What have we done? Surely you are not going to leave before my birthday? What has happened? Tell me, Caesar, and I will make it right."
He took her hand and kissed it. "I have enjoyed our association, Lady Devane, and I will always remember you. I hope you remember me as kindly—"
"How can I not? Caesar, have you talked to Lord Devane? He is going to be so upset. Do not leave like this—"
But he shook his head, becoming even more adamant at the mention of Roger's name. She could not believe it; she felt as if she were losing a dear friend. He had been her first ally in the household. This could not be happening.
"Please, Caesar. Stay for my sake. At least until my birthday—"
She could see that he was moved by her emotion, but Thérèse came into the room and he stiffened, and said he could not change his plans, but that he wished her all happiness.
"He is leaving us!" Barbara cried to Thérèse.
Thérèse looked at White and then away.
"I must go," White said to no one in particular.
"Is it because of the verse?"
"The verse?"
"Yes. Are you leaving because of that? Surely you know it is all lies. I would never be unfaithful to Lord Devane."
He took both her hands in his good one. "I admire you from the bottom of my heart," he said, looking into her eyes, "and I would never believe evil of you."
"Then why are you leaving?"
He did not answer. And she knew then that nothing she could say would change his mind. Something had happened; but she was not to know what it was.
"Wait." She rummaged through a cupboard until she found her bag of coins.
"Take this," she said, handing it to him.
"No! I could not—"
"Lord Devane would be furious if you went away from us empty– handed. Go on, take it. I can always get more tomorrow. You know how generous my husband is. You have my good wishes, Caesar. I hate that you are going."
He could not look at her. Swallowing, he bowed and left. She watched him walk out of the room, as did Thérèse. Then she ran to find Montrose, who was in his parlor halfheartedly arranging pieces of paper.
"What happened?" she cried.
But he could tell her nothing; he was as bewildered and hurt as she was by White's sudden flight.
"He quoted poetry," he said, looking at her blankly.
"Poetry!" she exclaimed. "What did he say?"
"He said, 'From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer's day; and with the setting sun dropped from the zenith like a falling star.'"
"But what does that mean?"
"It is about Lucifer and his fall from heaven. That is all I know."
Lucifer! She wanted to stamp her feet and shout at the sky. What was happening? In their own household? It was coming apart and she did not know why.
* * *
Now it was the afternoon of her birthday. Outside, footmen and maidservants bustled stringing new paper lanterns across the gardens, raking the gravel, pulling old blooms off the flowers, setting the tables with linen cloths that brushed the bricks of the terrace, arranging flowers and ivy and candles in the center of each table. The fountains in the gardens would spew wine tonight. In the kitchen, the cook and his helpers roasted meats and the fish, duck, and capon dishes that would be served tonight; in the pantry, on silver trays, lay mountains of fresh fruit, jellied tarts, cakes, iced and sugary. Her finished portrait, festooned with flowers, hung in the hall, the first thing guests would see as they came in the door. Yesterday she had overseen the sending of its duplicate to her grandmother. Her grandmother was very much on her mind; she longed to talk with her. Something was wrong—it was the verse—she could feel its effect as surely as she felt the sun on her face. They were all touched by it.
She thought about it as Thérèse dressed her for the dinner, a glittering affair even if it was small, since the most important people in Paris would be there. And she did not care. She dreaded the thought of having to smile and nod and pretend nothing was wrong, pretend that she did not know what she knew, pretend she did not realize that they were all watching, assessing her and Roger's every move. Everyone in her household was nervous and edgy, from LeBlanc and Montrose to herself and Roger. It was as if everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Roger was like a cat, high–strung, snapping at everyone. He and Harry avoided each other, which hurt her heart to see. Harry sat sprawled in one of her armchairs, patches over his bruises, as if to emphasize them, dressed to within an inch of his life: an expensive wig and coat, lace that was finer than hers, high heels on his shoes, the young dandy. He might not have had a care in the world, except for the marks on his face—and the scowl.
She was on the edge of a ferocious mood herself, even though under Thérèse's skilled hands she looked like an angel. Her flux had begun this morning, blood red. She had wanted to cry with disappointment. But it was her birthday, and she had to pretend that everything was well; that her name had not been dragged in the mud with her husband's friend; that her husband was not humiliated; that her brother had not made an ass of himself; that one of their most devoted servants—and friends—had not inexplicably left them. She pressed her hands together trying not to scream at Thérèse as she brushed her hair up, arranging fresh white roses in it. Tonight, she wore black and white: a black low–cut gown, the
underskirt shot through with threads of silver, frosted with flowers of pearls and diamonds. Patches were sprinkled on her forehead and cheeks to emphasize her red rouge. Huge diamond drops were in her ears, her birthday present from Roger, as were the bracelets she wore on each arm. Hyacinthe matched her, black and white, like a tiny harlequin. He would carry her fan and whichever of the birthday bouquets she had been receiving all day she chose to carry tonight.
Most of her presents were littered across her dressing table, along with her ribbons and jewels and scent bottles and laces. There was White's poem. It had been tied with a blue ribbon, and in its lines, she was compared to Aurora, the goddess of the dawn, for her red–gold hair and shining spirit.
There were the various birthday bouquets from friends (Richelieu's had come with a pearl bracelet—most improper, but very like him). Harry had given her a fan scented with lavender and verbena, the fragrance reminding her of her grandmother. When she had opened it, the scene painted across it resembled the view from Tamworth's library windows—the rose gardens and yews, the deer park beyond. ("I described it," Harry explained, "and the man painted it." He said it nonchalantly, as if it were nothing, but she kissed him for his thoughtfulness.)
She had received many letters from her relatives to wish her birthday happiness, from her aunts and Tony and Fanny and Mary. But the two most unexpected letters were from her parents. Her father wished her felicitations of the day and gave her an address to send him money, which he would repay, he wrote. She folded away his letter without a word, hiding it under some jewels in one of her boxes. (Later she would take it out, reread it, and send him the money.) It was her mother's letter that most surprised her—ink–stained, badly spelled, for Diana had never bothered much with her lessons, being more intent on flirting with her tutors. Her mother wished her a happy birthday, and said that she was in her thoughts. She signed it, "Your loving mother, Diana Alderley." Harry was reading it now.
"I received one, too," he said, folding it and handing it back. "Has she seen God, do you think?"
Barbara shrugged. Her mother had never remembered a birthday before, not when she was at Tamworth, not in all the time she could remember.
"There," said Thérèse, touching a last rose. "You are perfect!"
"Not quite," said Harry, reaching into his coat, "She needs more jewelry." Hanging from his finger was a long gold chain ending in a single diamond drop, held by two small pearls. She recognized it immediately.
"Grandmama!"
Harry handed her a letter, grinning at her. "They both came yesterday."
"I knew she would not forget!" said Barbara, tearing past her grandmother's seal to read the beloved, much–needed words.
I send you birthday greetings and all my love, and I would give anything to see you, but I do not travel well these days, and so must content myself with your letters, and with my trust in the Lord's watching over you. Sixteen…you are a woman now, with a woman's sorrows and joys. I kiss both your cheeks and your eyes and I wish that I could sit watching you dress for your birthday fête. Remember me among the princes tonight, as I remember you each night in my prayers. I send you my blessings. When you first left for London, I read to you from the Lord's Word. Do you remember? I read you: "Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the issues of life," advice which is as good today as it was then. If Harry is with you, kiss him for me. Tell him he does not write, and I expect him to. Watch over him, he has not your character. Everyone at Tamworth is well. Dulcinea has had more kittens. Tony is with me still, braving the threat of smallpox and the Lord protecting him for it, and the more I know him, the more I love him. I can see that with my guidance, he could make something of himself. Your mother prospers in London. Her divorce petition has been approved. Jane is with child. Tell Harry if you think he should know…or care. Keep thy heart, my dearest granddaughter, for your heart is my heart also. I enclose a little something from my own youth, mine when I was sixteen—so very long ago. Written this day, the twenty–seventh of April, in the year of Our Lord, 1716, at Tamworth Hall.
Carefully Barbara folded the letter.
"What does she say?" asked Harry.
"That you never write and that Jane is with child." Harry's face was so still that Barbara was almost sorry for her flippant words. Thérèse, who was fastening the necklace around Barbara's neck, thought, Who is Jane?
"One more present! One more present!" chanted Hyacinthe, bringing it in. The dogs yapped at his heels.
"Shut up!" Harry told them. They barked at him. The box was long and thin, like a fan box, and it was tied with a black velvet ribbon. But when Barbara opened it, she saw not a fan, but a piece of paper folded over and over to resemble a fan. Even before she read the words, she knew what they said: "Devane, Soissons, Devane…"
Harry grabbed it from her and crumpled it. His eyes were flashing with anger.
"Damn it! I would like to kill the writer! Bab, are you all right?"
She had her eyes closed and one hand around her grandmother's necklace. Keep thy heart. She could do that. She squared her shoulders, snapped open Harry's fan, and selected Wart's bouquet of vivid red roses.
"Your arm, Harry."
His eye scanned her face, and he must have approved of what he saw because he smiled at her. Together, they went downstairs.
Talking in low tones at the foot of the stairs, Roger and Philippe moved apart as they appeared. Something about that movement set off a momentary ripple in Barbara's mind—that verse touched them all. Even Roger and Philippe could no longer be completely natural, but then Harry and Philippe were staring at each other like two stiff–legged dogs on the verge of a fight, and she forgot it in trying to get everyone past that moment. Philippe bowed over her hand, and there was something so amused, so malicious, in the back of his eyes that it was all she could do not to snatch her hand back. He is enjoying this, she thought. Why?
The dinner was as awful as she had imagined. The sly glances at her and Roger and Philippe; the awkward silences; Roger's charm lost against Philippe's coldness and Harry's smoldering anger. The tension between those two was frightening; Barbara expected every moment for them to whip out their swords and begin dueling. I shall get through this, she kept thinking, through the long, six–course meal, through the recital of music and scenes from Racine's plays, through the fireworks display in her honor. And then, at last, the guests were leaving. Only a few of the men stayed to gamble in the library. She escaped upstairs, her face aching from false smiles, her heart aching from the shame at the way people had watched her tonight; her loins aching from her flux.
Toward dawn, she had a bad dream. She dreamed she was in a crowded room, people everywhere, laughing, talking, dancing, and she was looking for Roger. She looked in a mirror, and the mirror became a window, and on the other side was Roger, and he was talking to Philippe. For some reason she began to cry. She slammed her fist against the mirror, and he looked at her, but he did not see her. She felt as if she were nothing. Sweating and whimpering, she lunged out of her sleep into the dawn. The bed beneath her hips, her rags for the flux, were soaked with blood. She got out of bed, knocking over the books on her bedside table. Her feet skittered among the papers that fell from them as she went to open the drapes. Her sketches. For Devane House. She pulled back the drapes. It was just dawn; not all of the shadows of the night were yet gone. She changed into a fresh nightgown. Roger. She wanted Roger. He would be asleep, but she would lie next to him and his body warmth would comfort her. How silly she was to be frightened of a dream.
He was not there; no one had slept in his bed. The candle Justin had left was burned to a stub. She crept downstairs. The house was silent, still dark. In the library, the card tables were littered with empty wine glasses and finished candles. She went into the blue–and–gold salon. The breeze from the open terrace doors fanned her cheeks. She thought at first the servants had forgotten to close the doors, but then she heard Roger's voice outside. And Philippe's. A sudd
en, odd impulse to eavesdrop seized her. She crept closer to the open terrace doors. The chill of the dawn touched her feet.
"'Rosy–fingered dawn appeared, the early born,'" she heard Roger say. He sat on the top terrace step with Philippe. Their coats and wigs were off, and two wine bottles, empty, lay on their sides. Philippe was drinking from the third, and he poured more into Roger's upraised glass.
"Bravo, my friend! Let me think…Homer."
"Very good, Philippe. I salute you."
"No, let us salute the dawn." They drank to the dawn.
"I will miss you," said Philippe.
Roger put his hand on Philippe's shoulder, and Philippe leaned his cheek against it for a moment.
Barbara's eyes focused on that gesture.
"Who said parting is such sweet sorrow?"
"Shakespeare."
